


Sure Thing

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-20
Updated: 2003-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Baby, sweet baby, can't get enough...</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Thing

  
You must have seen it slipping away, noticed it in increments, in slick bursts and sideways glances, in the hand-painted banners blooming brighter in every crowd. But when Chris slammed his elbow into your ribs during soundcheck in Seattle, wolf-whistling as Lance ambled across the stage, you blinked hard and shook your head, trying to clear your vision. Because, fuck, Lance and his dorkiness had completely parted ways, and seriously, when had that happened?

Dressed in some sort of curtain-patterned shirt and low slung jeans, Lance should have looked like a trailerpark caught in a tornado, but he didn't. He didn't at all. He looked like sex on stick, honeygold and smooth, and when he licked his lips you found yourself licking your own, wondering if he might taste different now, creamier maybe, or if his skin was still as sweet as ever, like ripe berries warm from the sun. You catch yourself smiling then; you haven't tasted Lance in years.

Chris catches you smiling, too, and he elbows you again, hard. "Dude. You're drooling."

"Am not!"

"Boy, please. You so are!"

Chris bats his eyelashes and jumps up and down, smooching your cheek, and you're seriously about to smack him when Lance starts singing, his voice sliding through the sound system like liquid fire, slow and twangy, and you can't remember the last time you heard him sing like that, like he's all alone, like he really means it.

He hums that first breath and you feel it all the way down to your toes. " _Baby, sweet baby, you're my drug,_ " he croons, eyes half-closed, inviting, " _Come on and let me taste your stuff._ " His hips sway, loose and easy and your dick twitches in your jeans, swelling toward the next verse. " _Baby, sweet baby, bring me your gift,_ " he finishes, smooth, a slow smile playing over his lips, " _What surprise you gonna hit me with?_ "

It's quieter than you've ever heard an arena during soundcheck, Lance murmuring into his mic, "Ah, yeah, okay, good," and nodding seriously, fingers cupped around the monitor in his ear.

You wonder whose song that was, and how long it'll be before you hear the rest of it, but then the 1006 fans with VIP passes from the local radio station fly into full freak-out mode, screaming and bouncing all over the place, and you decide you don't really want to hear anybody but Lance singing those words, anyway.

The thing is, show afternoons are usually kind of goofy and boring, and none of you really sing much for soundcheck, not any more than you have to, not even JC, unless he's really into himself, or really down on himself, or whatever. With C, sometimes it's hard to tell. The thing is, Lance just fucking _melted_ a couple lines from some country song you've never even heard before, and Melinda's heels are snapping across the stage, settling the teenies front and center, and Joey's running through his set-up, cracking jokes and working out the feedback in his system. The thing is, it's _Lance_.

You don't even realize you're staring until Chris reaches up and wipes his thumb across your chin. "Again with the drooling, J. Take a little tip from your Uncle Chris and get that under control, huh? It's really not attractive."

 _Fucker._

You make an effort to act more like yourself until they're through with you, but instead of hitting the toy room after the Q&A fan thing, you slip into the quiet room and wait for JC. You always think better with a lapful of warm mouseketeer, and with your fingers threaded through his hair you almost feel normal. "Hey, C?" you ask, almost hoping he won't answer. Sometimes JC falls asleep while you're thinking, which is fine, really, because JC sleeping is a beautiful thing, and lots of times you need the distraction.

He smiles your favorite smile, silvery eyes closed, face tilting into the pressure of your hand. "Mmm?"

"Is it me, or is Lance, like, different now?"

JC's eyes blink open, and he snuggles closer; you feel him humming and already you recognize the song. "Soundcheck, huh? Fucking hot."

"Fuck, yeah." Maybe Chris didn't get it, didn't feel what Lance's voice did to you, didn't see what Lance had become, but you knew JC would understand. "When, C? When'd it happen?"

"Dunno, man," JC says, looking at you seriously now, his hand reaching up to touch your cheek. "Been a while, but take it easy on him, okay? He's worn out from the movie and then the press and now the tour and, well. He's just so pretty, J. And it's not as easy it looks, so, yeah."

"What's not?"

"Mmmm." JC stretches, his shoulder blades digging into your thighs.

"Bein' so pretty."

"You sayin' I'm not pretty?"

"Yup."

"What? No way!" JC's just evil like that, and you have no choice but to retaliate, fingers scritching over his belly, tickling over his ribs, demanding, "Take it back!"

You don't even hear the other guys come in until Chris clears his throat. "Boys, boys, please!" he says, pretending to act his age. "What part of Quiet Room don't you understand?"

JC slides away from you, red-faced and indignant, tugging at his shirt. "See?" he says, like he'd said something about being quiet before. Sneaky bastard.

"But, Chris! Hey, no," you explain. "JC said I'm not pretty!"

"Aww, you're pretty, Jup," Chris says, ruffling the remains of your curls, and from the way he's smiling you know there's more. As soon as you close your eyes he says, "Just not as pretty as Lance."

JC ducks behind Joey and sticks his tongue out at you, but Lance just rolls his eyes and drops on to one of the loungers. "Right," Lance says, one hand fluttering a little, like he thinks Chris is making fun of him, or like he thinks it's your fault, or like maybe he just doesn't care anymore. You look away, hurt, and try to catch Joey's eye across the room. By the time you look back Lance is tapping at his Palm, cherry cream soda tucked between his thighs, teeth worrying at his lower lip and lost in something that has nothing to do with you, with any of you, probably. Butterflies swarm in your throat, and you swallow hard, swallow around a hurt you hadn't known was there.

. . .

  
"Seriously, man," JC says, both of you sprawled in front of the tv in your room, too tired to go out but not sleepy yet, either. "Don't fuck with Lance, okay?"

"I'm not." Not that you haven't thought about it, because you have, but you really weren't. You weren't even sure what JC meant, exactly, but he was looking at you like you should, so, "What?"

"Justin." JC's eyes are closed, but you hear the tone, JC's inner-mommy, and you don't like it any more now than you did when you twelve. "Justin. You know what I mean."

"No, I actually don't." And it feels like you don't know a lot of things lately, which sucks, hard, but there's not much you can do about it, is there? Besides hoping you wake up a little smarter tomorrow, which it seems like you hope for every night anyway, although so far it hasn't been working out too well for you. "Whatever, Jayce."

He props himself up on an elbow, and looks at you now, really looks, and you can see the change in his eyes when he realizes you're serious, you don't know what he's talking about. Still, his next question throws you a little. "When do you think Lance last got laid, J?"

"What the hell, C? How the fuck should I know?"

"Hmmm," JC says. "What about me?"

"Two nights ago," you answer, yawning. "Skinny raver boy. That club? The one with the fucked up lights?"

JC smiles, remembering maybe. "And Chris?"

"Tonight, I assume, but you know we'll all hear one way or the other tomorrow."

"Exactly," JC says, laughing as he slides off the couch, eyes flicking all around until he spots his keycard on the dresser. You still aren't sure why he thinks you're fucking with Lance. "Breakfast?"

"Of course." You hug him close, both of you clinging like breakfast isn't a sure thing, like you don't spend half your lives within throwing distance of each other, anyway. "Love you, C."

Without JC your hotel room feels too big, empty, and you miss sharing, which makes you laugh out loud because sharing bedrooms really sorta sucked, and you know that, too. Still, you can't help it, like you can't help thinking about JC's question, and you're wondering for real now, have maybe even thought about asking, whispering lewd and low in some sweet young ear, almost-alone in a dark hallway where Lance might even see, but Lance's beautiful boys disappeared right along with his dorkiness, and yes, maybe it took you a while to realize it, but fuck, you'd noticed that, too.

. . .

  
Soundcheck in Salt Lake, and there are more fans this time. You can feel them buzzing, feel the pitch rise when Lance crosses the stage, and you know they know about Seattle. They always know. NSYNC fans are tight like that, connected somehow, and they care, like really, which is weird sometimes, but it's sort of amazingly cool, too.

Lance's shirt is paisley and striped and absolutely hideous, and his jeans are worn-in and soft-looking, snug in all the right places, and he's so hot you think he might just burst right there. When you slide up behind him, your hands resting on his hips and your mouth beside his ear, whispering, "You gonna sing again, Bass?" you figure this is the sort of thing JC was talking about when he told you not to fuck with Lance, but you can't help yourself, you really can't.

Lance doesn't answer you, but he smiles and starts humming. Your mouth is so close to his throat you can almost taste the sound, and you know you should move but you don't. You don't press any closer, either, don't do anything but slide your thumb over his hipbone, ghosting under his shirt, claiming the warm crescent of skin within your reach. "My goodness," Lance says finally, "I s'pose I might."

He licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue and bright teeth and softwetred, and again, you think berries and fuck and miss you and you wonder where all this coming from. Seriously, because you might have had a crush on Lance back in the day, when he had pale skin and platinum hair and so much fear shaking inside of him it sometimes hurt you just to watch, but in all this time you've never really missed him before, never even thought you should. "It's a nice song, though, yeah?"

He laughs then, his head falling back against your shoulder. "No," he says. "No, it's really, really not."

"Gonna sing it for sure now, aren't ya?"

"Yup."

You think maybe C's right and it is hard being so pretty, and even though you don't know for sure because you aren't pretty like that, you're still you, and really, you think you know a few things about what's hard. Like not licking your way over Lance's throat, tasting the long line of his collarbone and the hungry bob of his Adam's apple, like not pressing against him, his ass so close and your dick so full and heavy just from the feel of his hipbones in your palms. Like watching him walk away from you, which, of course, he does.

Your hands feel empty now, big and clumsy and you stuff them in your pockets, waiting for the sound guys to finish with JC, waiting to hear Lance's voice wrap around whatever's not nice about that song and still make it sound so fucking sweet.

You don't have to wait long.

Lance starts out the same as before, the low thrum of his breath purring through the sound system, and then, " _Baby, sweet baby, whisper my name,_ " in that warm slow voice, " _Shoot your love into my vein._ " His body's like liquid even standing still, legs slightly splayed, arms loose at his sides, more relaxed than you've ever seen him on stage. " _Baby, sweet baby, kiss me hard,_ " and you recognize the slow spread of his smile, can hear it in the honeyed-heat of his voice, in the sudden hush that surrounds you as the words he's singing sink in. " _Make me wonder who's in charge._ "

That's it, just a few lines again, just enough to tease. You watch as Chris's eyes follow Lance across the stage, watch him watch Lance settle in beside JC, making a silly face, playful, like soundcheck's supposed to be. It gives you an extra minute to scrub your hands across your mouth, and no, you aren't drooling, but you could have been, so you're glad checked before Chris races over on his scooter and does it for you. Again.

. . .

  
Melinda's pissed. A day later and you have a headache from the night before and yeah, Melinda's pissed all right. You can tell by the way she taps her pen on the long conference table, because that quick staccato has never been a thinking rhythm for her and it always makes you nervous. You've seen that look before, many times even, but you've never seen it directed at Lance. "Are we gonna keep having problems at soundcheck, Bass?"

Lance quirks an eyebrow and sort of tips his head.

"So, you will not be finishing that song today?"

"Well," he says slowly, dragging the l's into an extra syllable. You like the way he doesn't bother to drown the Mississippi in his voice anymore. "Hadn't really planned one way or the other."

"Let's not then, okay?"

"Sure," he says, meeting her gaze, green eyes steady and serious, a half-smile playing at the corner of his lips. Something passes between them and he nods, twice, before turning to you and letting the smile blossom wide. "Didn't I tell ya, J? 'S not a nice song, man. Not a nice song at all."

And then Melinda's moving on with the day's agenda, and Lance is flipping pages right along with her, his attention focused on the business at hand. You know you're staring, know your face is flushed and a little sweaty, but you can't figure out why JC is shaking his head at you, or why Joey just kicked you under the table, hard.

"Ouch, jackass!"

You scowl at Joey and Joey scowls back, Melinda frowning at both of you until Lance sighs, tapping into his Palm again and you forget the thump of Joey's shoe against your shin. Chris crumples the front page of his agenda and throws it you. "Pay attention, Infant."

"I am!" You throw your hands up, more in frustration than surrender, but whatever. Melinda starts talking again and you focus on the agenda in front of you. They're your brothers and you love them, but fuck. Sometimes enough's enough.

. . .

  
Another club, another city, somewhere flat and surrounded by mountains, and the music's too loud, too fast, too thin, but you dance anyway, you all do, even Chris, who doesn't dance on nights off anymore, on principle, he says, but you know it's not. If Lance comes out with you, he and Chris usually drink and schmooze in VIP until Chris has had enough of whatever's up with him lately, and his eyes glitter and his scowl sharpens and he's outta there. Used to be that's when Lance would lean back and just fucking smile, slow, and the space beside him would fill with long lean muscle and pretty caramel skin. But now Lance has too much work to do, businesses to run, contracts to negotiate, other projects he doesn't tell you about anymore, so when Chris slips away from the table, Lance leaves too, leaves the club and goes back to the hotel, alone, because he's always busy now.

Always, but not tonight.

You slide in beside him, sweaty and hot and so close you know JC would be frowning if he could see you now, but he can't, he's dancing still, focused on some ballplayer you only half-recognize. Baseball really isn't your thing, though, but the guy is hot, strong and bristly and yeah, not what you're into, but yeah. You really aren't all that into anyone who isn't Lance, anyway. Not that he's noticed.

"Lance, man, is it true, what C says? You're really goin' home alone every night?"

Lance shakes his head, a dismissal, not a denial. "I hardly go home at all, J. You know that."

"Yeah, well, you know what I mean. Home, hotel, bathroom..."

"It's just sex, Justin. It's not like it matters."

It takes you longer than it should to respond because you're thinking, _exactly_ , but Lance seems serious, like maybe it does matter, like maybe it matters a lot, which is confusing because Lance usually says what he means, at least to you.

The cocktail girl sweeps by with fresh drinks and too-high heels and a tattoo trailing the length of her left leg, dark and tribal. It's nice ink, and if you were gonna be wherever you were for a couple days you'd ask where she had it done, but you're not, so. You smile when she smiles, and Lance calls her honey, and when she's gone you just nod at him and try to look like you mean it. "Yeah, uhm. You know, whatever," because fuck, what else can you say?

"Whatever," Lance echoes, only it doesn't sound like your whatever, it doesn't at all. It sounds tired and soft and when he looks right at you and says, "Fuck, J. I just want _more_ ," you aren't really surprised. You aren't surprised when he walks away from you, Jack and Coke in one hand and his cell phone in the other; you aren't surprised when he's not quite reached the back exit and you're surging forward, suddenly unwilling to let him go. You can't stop him, though, can't reach him before he climbs into the waiting car, can't do anything but watch him go and wish it didn't hurt, bonedeep and straight through your belly, and really, that part shouldn't surprise you, but fuck if it doesn't do just that.

. . .

  
You sleep through your wake-up call and holler something truly ugly when Chris pounds on your door a little later, so you wind up missing breakfast in Joey's room and you're still kinda grouchy when soundcheck starts. True to his word, Lance doesn't sing about drug-like kisses, or sweet surprises, or anything else that hasn't been censored within an inch of its life already. He goofs around with Joey, plays hide-and-seek with Chris, whispers something in JC's ear that makes them both blush hard. You almost wish you were JC then, sweet and glowing and worthy of everyone's secrets, and then you remember that you're Justin Timberlake, and yeah, not so bad yourself.

Everyone's being good today, like soundcheck's just some kind of silly sketch, written to order, and really, it's not even all that fake. Except maybe Lance's eyes seem a little more hollow to you, like maybe he tossed and turned half the night, and when he smiles you feel like there's a tether stretched across the stage from his lips to yours, too tight, and you know there's something wrong. You don't know what it is, but you know it's familiar, looking at Lance and really seeing him again, and if it didn't hurt so much you think it would probably feel really fucking good.

The Q&A deal is winding down, all the questions have been easy ones, favorites and lasts and you're hardly paying attention, until some twelve year old's voice hits a note you recognize and you tune right the fuck in, quick.

"We were, uhm, wondering?" she gestures wildly, and there's giggling, and for a second you think, _oh, it's just an underwear question_ , but then she clears her throat and tries again. "We were wondering if Lance is, like, okay?"

And whoa, where did that come from?

"Lance?" Melinda says, turning around to make sure you're all still smiling. "Lance is fine!"

"Honest," Lance says, blushing a little. "I'm better than fine. I'm great! Really!"

"Oh," she says, but she doesn't look convinced, and apparently the radio station fuckwit holding the microphone this afternoon doesn't know enough to move on, even though Melinda already asked for the next question. "That's really good," the fan-girl says, and then, "But if Lance is okay, then why did he stop singing?"

Chris almost bounces off his stool and JC grips his own thighs, hard. Lance looks hurt, and shakes his head. "I didn't stop singing," he says quickly, not waiting for Melinda to spin a more calculated response. He smiles, though, raw and aching, and you remember what it feels like to break a bone. "I sing every day, every show. We all do."

 _Damn straight_. You work your asses off on stage, sing until your throats are raw, and you never, ever, phone it in. Never. No matter what.

The girl nods then, smiling. You think you see her braces, rainbow glints in the sun, and she says, "Oh! I know! You're all amazing! We just heard that, uhm, before? Lance was singing by himself..." You wonder why she's addressing Melinda and not Lance, but only for a second because beside you Lance is radiating fire, and with that kind of heat so close there's no room in your head for anything else.

"Gracious," he says, his voice all southern and polite, but when he glances at Melinda, he's sweltering, green eyes burning with something much more fierce than pride. "All y'all are so sweet to worry, but I was just playin' around with a friend of mine's song, and it wasn't really an NSYNC thing, so, you know, I'm totally fine. I'm not sick or anything, but thank you for thinkin' of me. I really appreciate it!"

Chris starts turning cartwheels across the stage and Joey grabs you in a twirl and JC reaches over to mess with Lance's hair, and someone finally buys the microphone guy a clue and he moves the fuck on. Two more questions, just the regular stuff but everyone's hyper now, especially Chris, and Melinda's had it with all of you for the day.

. . .

  
Of course the crowd's lit up with Lance-love for the show, all screams and signs and you love it, love the energy always but love how much of it's for Lance tonight. When the choreography loosens, you dance up to him and point out your favorite, a huge banner that just says "Baby, Sweet Baby" in sparkly purple letters, and you're so fucking impressed with the fans you can hardly stand it. You throw your arm around him, both of you smiling as he waves in the direction you're pointing, throwing your heads back as the crowd bounces higher. Thirteen seconds and you feel his smile like it's your own, feel your dick twitch when he looks in your eyes, his hand on the small of your back, and then you have to dance away or miss your mark.

You have a raging hard-on for the rest of the show, and you know there'll be happy-pants pictures on the web before you even get back to the bus, but you don't care. You really don't, especially not when you're backstage afterwards, heart slamming in your chest and Lance leaning in close, whispering _thank you_ in your ear, both of you sweaty and flushed through with adrenaline. The brush of his lips on your skin leaves you shivering, and fuck, Lance's voice is sexy, which you knew already, but now? _Fuck_. It's too much and no where near enough and it's all you can do not to wrap your hands around his hips and just hold on, just for a minute, just to be sure. Instead you plant a quick kiss in his hair, spiky and slick, and dash off to get cleaned up, because the sooner you get out of here the sooner you'll be on the bus, and then before you know it you'll be at the hotel. It's not far tonight, you remember from the schedule, which is a good thing, because right now you're desperate for a real shower, long and hot and yeah, you'll settle for alone, although really? Not your first choice.

. . .

  
Laura's waiting for Lance at the hotel, which sucks even though it shouldn't, because either way you're showering alone and not thinking about the feel of Lance's hair between your fingers or his scent up close, heady and sweet, and seriously, it doesn't make any difference to you if she's here or not. You even like Laura, she's a sweet girl and a good person and she matters to Lance like Trace matters to you, although not exactly because you and Trace don't fuck around. And yeah, Lance is pretty gay, and Laura's not a beautiful boy by any stretch of the imagination, but she's not _just sex_ either, and you know that's what matters.

You hear it in his drawl, "Sweetest surprise, darlin'," and in the way she calls him sugah and touches his hand and smiles at the rest of you like she means it. And even if you didn't know it before you know it now, can feel it in the way Lance's eyes go soft and light up when he sees her, the way his whole body relaxes because she's smiling and warm and just there, and yeah, that's more, and yeah, without a doubt, Lance wants more. He said he did, didn't he, and Lance doesn't lie. Not to you.

Which is good, which is fine, better than fine, because Lance deserves everything he wants, deserves more, deserves to be happy, and if Laura makes him happy then you're happy she's here. You are. Really. You're just not going to think about her, which isn't a problem since you're not going to think about Lance, either.

You're not.

You're not thinking about him in the shower, soapslick and steamy, with your head thrown back against the wall and thick fingers gliding in and out, one hand wrapped around your dick, hot and aching and so fucking hard. You're not hearing his voice, low and rumbly even when he whispers, don't want to hear him growling your name and you're not moaning his when you come, thick spurts over your own fingers, washed away before you can lift them to your lips and imagine something more.

. . .

  
It's Lance's room for breakfast and you don't want to be there, but you're awake and hungry and it's what you do, the way you start your day, all of you together. JC gets antsy when the routine changes too much, and since you overslept the other morning and just plain skipped yesterday, you're here now, frowning into your Frosted Flakes and hoping the others show up soon. Lance is sitting in the armchair by the window and Laura's behind you somewhere, making more noise than you think is probably necessary.

She leans over your shoulder, long hair tickling at your skin, and when you take a deep breath to steady yourself you think she smells like peaches. "It's nothin' but comfort, sweetpea," she says quietly, and with the morning light in her hair and her hand warm on your arm you believe her. You also believe comfort is a lot more than nothing, but you nod and she doesn't say anything else. It's too early for chitchat which you figure she knows, because everyone knows you're an ass in the mornings, which doesn't account for the flip-flop in your belly when she sets a big cup of coffee on the table in front of you before sliding in between Lance and his newspaper and making room for herself in the warm hollow of his lap. You wish you didn't like her, but you do, and you know why Lance likes her, too.

Laura's eating strawberries and Lance is humming softly in her hair when Chris walks in, already grumbling about something, his knees or the schedule or maybe even JC's hair. It's hard to tell sometimes, because Chris likes to complain, and the topic isn't as important as just knowing he's being heard. Even so, he takes one look at you and stops short, his head tilted a little, staring hard. He walks out without saying another word, but he's back two minutes later, dragging a sleepy JC behind him and demanding that JC _looklooklook_.

JC rubs his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair, and then rubs his eyes some more. "J?" he asks you, all sleepy and unsure. "'S that you?"

"Uhm?" You wonder if maybe he's still dreaming, but no, he seems to be awake and blinking at you studiously. "Yeah, C. It's me."

"Chris said you were Joey."

"Nope. Joey's Joey and I'm me." You point at yourself and make some sort of sweeping gesture, "We're pretty easy to tell apart, yo."

"But Chris said..." he starts, then turns a wounded look on Chris. "You're not funny, little man."

Chris shrugs, grinning. "Hey, the infant's all smiles before his cereal's half gone and Joey's all alone in his room and sulking or something. What am I supposed to think?"

Laura giggles and Lance folds his paper down and looks at you, soft and warm, and your stomach does that flip-flop thing again. JC rolls his eyes and grabs a croissant from the breakfast cart, his hand sliding over Chris's ass before he sits down next to you, pulling his feet up and resting his chin on his knees. Chris calls Joey's room and tells him to quit moping and get his sorry butt to breakfast.

You're on your second bowl of cereal when Joey shows up. He flicks Chris's ear and kisses Laura's cheek and says how much Bri loves her dolly and Kelly's going to call Laura a little later, if that's okay? Joey has new baby pictures, too, and Laura's cooing and JC is humming to himself and Chris is mumbling something about gullible pretty boys and giggling under his breath. Lance is still looking at you, warm and soft and yeah, you're an ass in the mornings but you're smiling now.

Chris swipes his thumb across your bottom lip and quirks an eyebrow. "Your face get stuck like that, kiddo?" he asks, quiet and serious, but you see the laughter dancing in his eyes. You smack his hand away and go back to scowling, but your lips are syrupysweet now and you're not sure if it's from Chris's pancakes or the way Lance's eyes follow your tongue as you taste.

. . .

  
Lance hardly ever rubs his palm over your stubble, but he used to wind his fingers through your hair all the time, reading or watching tv or just waiting, wrapped up together in an airport somewhere, homesick and too tired to sleep. Lance's hands slide through Laura's hair now, smooth and shiny, so different from yours but you remember the twisty tug of Lance's fingers lost in thought, and for the first time since you finally got rid of them, you sort of miss your curls.

For the rest of the week, give or take, Laura's just part of the tour, riding with Lance and Joey on the two man bus, making appearances and having her picture taken with Lance wherever they go, both of them smiling, relaxed and happy. She's small and quiet and easy to be around, and you almost forget she's there during the day, hanging around backstage and teaching JC how to knit, of all things. She doesn't say much to you, but when she does, she calls you honey or sweetpea, and she touches your elbow for no reason, and later you find yourself calling your gramma just to say hi.

Laura spends her nights with Lance, doing whatever they do, and you spend your nights alone, writing songs that will have to be seriously girl-ified before they have half a chance of making it onto an NSYNC record, or even on to your own record, which is really too scary to even think about. You like the idea of these songs though, and you have high hopes for _Like I Love You_ , although you admit it doesn't make a whole lot of sense yet. It will though, because it's a story song, sort of, and story songs have a way of sneaking up on you when they're ready to be written.

. . .

  
You don't know where you are when you realize Lance's eyes are starting to look tired again, achy and sore when he thinks no one's looking, but you're pretty much always looking now, and it pretty much always hurts. You know he misses Laura, know he misses her even if it was just comfort, because fuck, she's a nice girl and who wouldn't miss her? Even JC misses her, but JC has something new and arty to do with hands and a pretty new scarf show for it, all soft pink and warm and JC loves it, loves that he made it himself and loves Laura for helping him even though it took time away from the sweater she'd been knitting for Lance.

"Is it nice?" you ask, a little distracted. You're winding down a long day of interviews and promo stuff, and you've spent most of the day with Chris, meeting up with Joey somewhere in the middle and now the five of you are together for one last radio spot. Almost together, anyway. You and JC just finished with a photo op and are taking a breather, watching the other guys through the studio window and waiting to be waved into the booth. Lance's back is turned to you, and he's not wearing anything movie star-ish today, just regular khakis and a dark red t-shirt, and he looks good, really, you haven't seen him in khakis in a long time. "The sweater, I mean. Is it nice?"

JC nods, fingering the scarf around his neck. "Oh yeah," he says, and it's too warm for scarves but suddenly your own throat feels bare without one. "It's sorta like this, only way better because Laura's a really good knitter. And she, uhm, measured him for it and everything so, yeah, it's perfect. Lance's shoulders are broad now, you know?"

"So, it's, uhm, made from the same--" you pause, feeling your breath catch when Lance twists in his chair, laughing at Chris or Joey or himself maybe, and his shirt rucks up a little, a tease of smooth palegold, and fuck "--the same, like, yarn, or whatever?"

"Yeah," JC says, tilting his head to rub his cheek against the scarf. You think about a whole sweater like that, soft on Lance's berrysweet skin, and your dick jumps in your jeans like your fifteen and JC, of course, notices. "Still? Awww. That's sweet J, really, but..."

"Whatever, C. You're one to talk, man." You adjust yourself and try to think about something unsexy, like the way Lance seems a little dorkier since Laura's visit, a little younger, a little less polished, but it's not really working because you sorta like those things about Lance, too. And then he's looking at you, and _fuck_ , your hand's still on your dick, because yeah, adjusting, but it's really fucking hard now, and god damn it, Lance is crazy beautiful and _right there_ and you've never been so in love with anyone that it actually takes your breath away, and yeah, this is _more_ all right.

"Fuck," you hiss, forcing yourself to look away, because you are so not in love with Lance Bass, you're not, you're really not. Except in the way that maybe you are, and even though you stare carefully at your blue suede nike's and shake your head like you mean it, denying it seems sorta pointless now, since you apparently went ahead and wrote a song about it already. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

JC tugs on your arm, drawing your eyes back to his. "You ready for this, man?" You nod, thinking, _no, not ready at all_ , but you smile anyway, because you could do these promo spots in your sleep now, you all could, and then you smile for real, because you think you all probably have. JC smiles back, and it's his real smile, because he's looking in your eyes now and your breath hitches again, panicking. "I don't know what's going on with you, J, and this isn't the place to talk about it, but yeah. Something's up and you know I wasn't kidding about Lance, right?"

"Yeah, I know, C. But guess what, yo? I'm not kidding about Lance, either." And then the door opens and you don't have time to say anything else, which is good, because you're not ready and besides, you really don't know what else to say.

JC does, though, you see it in eyes before you hear the words, lean and lethal in your ear, "You'd better not be, Justin." And everyone knows that JC's a kitten, but you learned a long time ago that kittens have claws and sharp little teeth, and you know exactly how dangerous JC can be.

. . .

  
Lance disappears with a beautiful boy at some club, and between the flashing lights and the tequila and the thick smoke hanging over the VIP, it's all you can do to stumble down the back corridor, bumping against Tiny's huge shoulder and clutching your stomach before you throw up all over the sidewalk, acid sour and burning. Doubled over, and the cramps mean you're more sick than drunk but you still hope there won't be pictures in the morning. Really though, it hurts too much to care. Tiny tucks you into the waiting car, asking if you're okay, if want him to get the other guys. You mumble something that must have sounded like no, because the car pulls away from the curb and you're alone, the seat beside you cold and empty and no one to hold your hand. Your head swirls, sweat drying on your skin too tight, and if you could you'd hate Lance right now, hate him for making you want more, for making you watch him settle for less.

You remember waking up in your hotel room, soaked through and fuzzy, unsure how long you'd been asleep; you remember cool hands and a warm flannel cloth and soft words sung low and sweet. You remember tears, too, but you don't remember crying, so you think maybe you were dreaming fevered dreams. Lance is curled into your bunk, though, which is something because he doesn't usually ride on your bus and besides, you don't remember bundling onto the bus at all. Lance snuggles closer, his palm wrapped around your hipbone, his lips on your shoulder, whispering kisses and pulling you back into sleep.

Three days, one show, and miles and miles of empty highway. You perform like you always do, full-on, all the way, one hundred percent because if you couldn't, you wouldn't do it all, and none of you want to cancel, like, ever, so. You sleep as much as you can, all the time, buried under the blankets in Lance's bunk on the two man bus. Joey moves in with Chris and JC, trying to keep the germs in check, but Lance stays with you, and it's nice, really nice, more than nice. Lance is quiet and warm and you curl around him while he works, his fingers on his keyboard like rain falling on the bus roof, his heartbeat like thunder in your ears. At night he curls around you, humming low in his throat, the vibration thrumming through your chest, lullabies you didn't know he knew.

. . .

  
You're still riding on Lance's bus even though you aren't really sick anymore, still sleeping and working and waking up together, crashing in each others hotel rooms, winding around each other on random couches, absorbing more and more.

Sometimes at night, Lance sinks into the cushions beside you, sighing over contracts and rubbing his eyes, just beat from another long day, and it doesn't matter if you're alone on the bus or hanging out in Joey's room, it doesn't matter if you watching tv with Chris or writing with JC, your hand reaches for him automatically, fingers scrabbling over his back, short nails on soft skin, loving the way his head falls forward and the tension just drains away. It's like being kids all over again, only so much better because you're not afraid now, either of you, and you're not in such a hurry all the time, not in such a rush just to be where you already are.

You wake up hard every morning, your dick pressed against Lance, your hips rolling slowly, still half asleep. You wake up beside him in the afternoons, the quiet room lit with candles, Chris and JC lounging across from you in a recliner and Joey napping on the other couch, mouth open and one arm thrown over his eyes. You wake up surrounded by your brothers, Lance's dick hard against yours, his face turned into your neck, lips brushing your collarbone before he even opens his eyes, and maybe it's weird but not to you. To you it's all kinds of right.

. . .

  
Soundcheck, somewhere, you honestly aren't sure where. There are signs posted backstage to remind you, but just at this moment it's enough to know you're here, because Lance is humming again, and then he's singing, so fucking smooth, " _I am waiting here for more, I am waiting by your door, I am waiting on your back steps,_ " and it's really just too much. You hear the words like aftershocks, his voice rumbling right through you, making you tremble and swallow hard. Lance's breath hitches, tongue darting across his lips as he cocks his hips, just a little, just enough, " _I am waiting in my car, I am waiting at this bar, I am waiting for your essence._ "

You're on your feet before you realize it, striding across the stage and wrapping your arms around Lance, pulling him close and twirling fast, hoping it looks more playful than it is. Joey spun you around just like this a few days ago, except Joey's dick wasn't hard against yours and Joey's lips brushing across your cheek didn't curl your toes. "Don't have to wait anymore, baby," you whisper against his ear, so soft you're not sure he hears you until he shivers. He's laughing when you set him down, eyes sparkling bright and that low rumble still echoing in your chest as you bound across the stage and twirl Chris around, too, swinging him wide, extra careful to keep your hips far apart because your dick's still throbbing and that's a whole lot of teasing you really just don't need.

"Melinda's gonna kill you," Chris sing-songs in your ear, "Melinda's gonna screeeeam."

You don't care.

. . .

  
Joey reclaims his spot on the two man bus after the show, and JC wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging until you follow him back to the other bus. Lance is waiting at the door, making JC watch while he whispers in your ear, low and dirty and you know you're blushing when he pulls away, smiling, and walks back to his bus, humming as he goes.

You think you're ready for your lecture now.

"All right, kiddo," Chris says when you're all cleaned up and sprawled out in the lounge. "I'm an old man and I'm tired, but C promised to tuck me in tonight if I did good, so here goes. You got something going on with Lance, fine. Don't think this is the best time, but what do I know? I'm no expert on relationships, so, whatever. But you gotta be careful, J. Really, really, careful. I love you, you know that, I love all you fuckers, but if you break him, man, it's over."

"I'm not gonna break him!"

Chris stares at you like he knows something, expectant and patient at the same time, a trick he picked up from your momma back in the day. He's had plenty of time to perfect it since then, and yeah, he's just about got it down now.

"Fuck, Chris. What is it? I love him, all right? I'm not gonna hurt him! I wouldn't hurt any of you, and y'all oughta know that by now."

Chris finishes the bottle of water by his side, opens another and goes right back to looking at you like you didn't say a word. You try staring back, which never works on Lynn and doesn't work on Chris, either. Chris allows it though, which throws you, because your momma sure wouldn't have, but after the initial thrill it's almost worse than the hiss of _Justin Randall Timberlake_ you were half-expecting. Fucker.

"Lance isn't like us, Justin. He loves all this, but it isn't everything he ever wanted, you know?"

"We all have other projects, Chris." You say it softly, though, because even though it's true, you sort of know what he means. "Right?"

"Well, yeah. We do. But you and me, J? We always wanted this, always. JC and Joey, too." Chris pauses and you nod, reaching for your own water bottle, just because. "Lance, though? Not the same. When he was a kid, this isn't what he dreamed about. Before your mom called Diane, he had other plans, a future that had nothing to do with music or movies or celebrity. Not that he doesn't love this, because he does, and he loves us, but he isn't like us."

"So?"

"So, he's just starting to figure all that out, starting to think about what he's gonna do for the rest of his life, and you know what? He's not gonna have a solo career like you and C. I mean, the kid can wail, but he doesn't want the spotlight, right? And yeah, he can act, but he's not a theater geek like Joey. So, he's kinda fragile right now, and you're Justin fuckin' Timberlake, man. You're kinda overwhelming."

"First of all, Lance is _not_ fragile, and if he knew y'all were thinkin' that, he'd be really pissed off. And second of all, I'm not gonna hurt him! I don't care what he wants to do with the rest of his life, Chris. I mean, I hope he wants to do it with me, but if he doesn't that's his choice, not mine. And I'm not overwhelming, jackass. Not like that."

"Whatever, supahstar." Chris's knees creak when he stands up, and he reaches over and rubs his hand over your head, so you know this little talk is almost over. "Just be careful with him, okay?"

"Y'all don't even know." You pull out the pout now, because you listened to what Chris had to say, but really. Seriously. "I'm the one who's probably gonna get hurt here, and not one of you fuckers are even a little worried about that."

"Oh, poor sweet boy," Chris coos, smirking, and you bite your lip. JC's giggle bubbles up from the back of the bus, and you know it's coming even before Chris blows you a kiss, reaching out to rub across your stubble one more time as he walks away. "We all know Lance would never hurt you, baby."

 _Fuckers_.

. . .

  
You think this was so worth waiting for, the sun shining through the hotel's tinted windows and the whole morning ahead of you, time enough to laze in bed, twined around each other, cool air still steamy from the shower and Lance's skin wet and slick and just as sweet as you remember. Sweeter, even. Last night it would have been fast and dirty, adrenaline coursing through your veins and exhaustion hovering close on its heels, and it would have been hot, fuck yeah, but this is hot too, sexy and hungry and _fuck_. More.

"Want you," you breathe against his lips, kissing down his throat, across his collarbone, tasting the tight peaks of his nipples and the soft fuzz of his chest. Lance's dick is beautiful, thick and hard and dripping on his belly. You taste that, too, tongue flicking into the shiny wet, and it's so fucking good. One long lick and you slide your lips around him, slow, slow, slow, his hips pressing in to your palms. He moans, and the sound pours through his body and into yours until your mouth vibrates with it and you swallow around him, swallow him down, releasing his hips as he fills your throat, coming in long spurts you never want to end.

"So good," you whisper, letting him pull you up, your dick dragging over his thigh, hard and leaking and aching for more. "Mmmm...."

Lance licks into your mouth, hot and lazy, kissing you like he has all day. He rolls you gently, exploring, and his hands are everywhere, long fingers burning into you and finally, finally wrapping around your dick. His tongue paints a wet path from the cleft of your ass all the way up your spine, nuzzling the back of your neck, tasting the three freckles he says are like Orion's Belt behind your ear. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he murmurs, purring, sliding a slick finger into your body and biting your earlobe, making sure.

"Please," and it maybe sounds like you're begging, but you don't care because Lance's fingers are twisting inside you, slippery and hot and holy fuck, you want this. You want _more_. Your breath catches in your throat, jagged and needy, "Want you in me, baby. Want you now."

Lance doesn't disappoint.

. . .

  
You're watching Lance at soundcheck, so damn pretty, just drinking water in long thirsty swallows. His head is tilted back, flowered shirt open at the neck, and maybe your ass is still a little sore but your dick doesn't know that, nestling heavy and full against your thigh. You're still watching Lance when Chris sidles up beside him, raising an eyebrow at you and elbowing Lance's ribs. Lance pitches forward, laughing and spraying water across the stage, all of you cracking up and pointing and sliding into your places for Q&A.

You're not sure if Melinda is pleased, you think she might be, but lately it's been kinda hard to tell.

Right up front there are half a dozen girls wearing the same white t-shirts -- _Lamblove_ , they say, and there's a little stick-figurey lamb saying _Eh?_ like he doesn't get it, which is so perfect it's killing you. You whisper in Lance's ear, loving the rush of goosebumps racing over his skin, loving the feel of Lance's hand hidden on the small of your back, two fingers dipping lower, stroking until you squirm, so close you feel his breath mingling with your own.

"Lamblove, is it now? Good gracious," he drawls, whispering with his hand curled over his mic, eyes all beaming innocence. "But, Lord, they're sweet. Might even buy one of those for your momma..."

"Leave my momma outta this," you say, rolling your eyes and grinning, because suddenly it's so clear, like time rushing forward so you see everything, all at once. And Lance is still beautiful, prettier than ever and sexy as a thousand sins, but underneath all the dazzle he's still _Lance_ , brilliant and strange and so fucking funny, and yeah. "God, Bass. You're such a dork!"

"Yup."

His tongue darts out over his smile and he swallows hard, your eyes following the slide of his Adam's apple. Fuck, he's a tease. "Gonna buy me a t-shirt, too?"

"Sure thing, darlin'."

"You know I am," you say, and it's not what you mean, not exactly, but Lance winks, and you know it's close enough. You think it might even be more.

\--END-- 

**Author's Note:**

> Lance is singing Essence, by Lucinda Williams, and if you want a t-shirt like the ones in the story, you can find them [here](http://www.cafeshops.com/lamb_stick), which you probably already know. *g* And finally, thanks to Carleen for the finishing nudge - I really did need it!


End file.
